Room 422
by AnotherFanFic
Summary: Sherlock has gone into precipitous (rapid) labor, and John is on a plane. Will John get there in time to see his son born? / JohnLock, of course. / WARNING: Rating for controversial subject matter (Slash, MPREG - obviously: Don't like, don't read!) and intense descriptions of labor and childbirth.
1. Chapter 1

The world's only consulting detective closed his eyes and breathed. It was the only thing he could do. Sweat clung to him like a second shirt, even as more of the hot salty liquid beaded up and slid in rivulets across his skin. He moaned, and he was oblivious to the sound.

He was out of control. The great Sherlock Holmes was not in control of himself. _Even these medical people are out of control_, he thought.

Apart from taking deep, cleansing breaths, nothing about his situation was under control. He breathed faster, his belly heaving, as the next contraction ripped through him, this time knifing around to his back and buttocks. He let out a strangled scream as he discovered the intense pressure in his groin that soon accompanied it.

He was already transitioning to the next phase of labor, his body clamoring for release. It was agony unlike anything he had ever known. His hands shot out instinctively. Grasping, grabbing for anything to cling to. John! He _needed _John. The bed rails were slick with sweat from his palms. He needed to grip something - tighter - as he felt his insides being squeezed impossibly, mercilessly harder. An attendant took hold of his hand. He huffed and puffed through the next few contractions, screwing up his face in concentration, and twisting the smaller, blue-gloved hand in his own.

_Where was John? _ Oh, God, this was killing him. If he had known – if he could even have imagined this –

* * *

The plane landed at 2:49pm, and John Watson turned on his phone. He had barely unbuckled his safety belt when he registered a number of things at once.

First, his mobile alerted him to a series of text messages, all of which he was sure would be from Sherlock. The poor man was so genuinely bored right now, and uncomfortable. _Probably wants me to rub his bloody feet_, the doctor smiled fondly.

Second, there was some kind of commotion going on at one end of the plane.

Third, everyone was looking out the windows at something on the runway. Everyone in a window seat, anyway.

John opened his texting inbox. He stopped breathing, and his eyes widened increasingly as he rapidly took in the list of communications:

**Sherlock **1:22pm – _Water broke. Cancel your flight. Mycroft is sending private jet._

**Sherlock **1:44pm – _Heading to Bart's_.

**Sherlock** 2:18pm – _Checking in._

**Sherlock** 2:45pm – _Suite 422. Where are you?!_

**Mycroft **2:45pm – _Helicopter waiting on your runway. Exit plane as quickly as possible._

**Sherlock **2:46pm – _Come now please!_

**Sherlock **2:51pm – _Need you. Need you. Need you._

**Sherlock **2:52pm – _John_

He glanced up sharply toward the end of the plane, where Anthea was waiting with her mobile. He threw his bag over his shoulder and rushed down the aisle. "How is he?!"

* * *

The waves of pain were lasting so long now, and they came so closely together, that poor Sherlock could not tell where one ended and another began.

He cried out, but found no relief. He was beyond panicked, and he didn't know _when _that had started. Shocked at the mind-numbing pain - his superior mind _was_ nearly numbed at the moment - he tried to focus again on just breathing, but felt his body being driven into immediate action.

He thrashed about in distress. "Help me!" he begged. "Oh! Please – I need-" He gasped, inhaling sharply. "I need to push!"

* * *

**A/N - WARNING: This chapter is a bit rough, so you can decide if you want to read on. If this chapter is too graphic for you, Do Not Read the next chapter.**

**For those of you still with me, a baby will be born soon! But will John get there in time?**

**Please R&R - but no flames!**


	2. Chapter 2

Dr. John Watson blew through the swinging doors at the entrance to the Delivery Room ward, and skidded around the corner in the direction the head nurse indicated to be Sherlock Holmes's room. He didn't have to scan the numbers on the doors; he could hear the detective's anguished screams from the other end of the hall.

"Jooooooohn!"

To John, his partner's cries indicated an acute and pain-filled struggle against something that clearly had him beaten. His instincts as a soldier and protector kicked into even higher gear.

"I'm coming, Sherlock!" The ex-army doctor shouted as he sprinted toward the room. He pushed open the door and saw a pale green curtain with several pairs of feet behind it. His heart was beating wildly as he rounded the curtain and saw his partner's heavily pregnant form writhing and gasping in a hospital bed, clearly in the throes of active labor.

He looked bloody_ awful_.

His face was almost purple, every vein pulsing on his arms and his forehead like the tightened tendons that stood out on his neck. There were three medical persons present in surgical scrubs, all of whom took one look at the newcomer and continued ministering to their patient. One of them was speaking to the laboring man in soothing tones, rubbing the inside of his thigh to gently pry it aside and check her patients' progress. The other attendant was reading what looked like a perpetual print-out from a monitor level with Sherlock's elbow, and a third had his name sewn onto his scrubs and a stethoscope around his neck. The on-call physician, then.

"You must be John Watson," the attendant at the monitor spoke warmly. John nodded once. He was fidgeting, nervous and worried as hell, and he thought he probably looked it.

"John," came a whimper from the bed, and John was pushing past the attendant to his companion's left side. "I'm here, darling. I'm finally here. I'm so sorry I'm late." He laid a hand on the sweaty brow, and Sherlock began weeping in relief. He didn't even raise an eyebrow at the term of endearment being expressed outside of their flat. John murmured a few quiet words into the detective's ear and stroked his arm, pressing a stream of kisses onto his head. The tension in the room visibly dropped as Sherlock leaned into his Watson, taking long-awaited comfort from his solid, strong presence.

That is until he felt his entire body catch fire. He was unaware that he let out a keening sound, as the nurse who had been checking his dilation began lifting the stirrups from the side of the bed and locking them into place.

"You got here just in time," she grinned excitedly at John. "Now Sherlock," she coached. "Let's get ready to have this baby." She guided one foot into a stirrup, and her counterpart performed the same action at the other side of the bed.

Sherlock's face was a portrait of abject terror and pain. John knew why they had planned to go without the epidural, but it was killing him to see Sherlock so distressed. He stroked the ruddy cheek and spoke beside his ear. "Shhh… it's alright, love. It's almost over. He's almost here."

Sherlock's scream was terrible as his body began to push without his telling it to.

"Not yet – not yet, Sherlock!" the physician called out a warning. Stricken, the laborer emitted a guttural choking sound, striving to keep his natural urges at bay.

"Ok, now scoot down for me. That's it, just a bit closer, that's fine. You're almost ready to deliver."

John managed to readjust Sherlock's grip on him as the doctor continued,"Okay Sherlock, on my word, I want you to drop your chin to your chest, and then bear down as hard as you can. Use your feet to push against these stirrups for leverage. Got it?"

Sherlock blew out quick, shallow breaths through gritted teeth, and nodded, rapidly blinking tears from eyes wide with fear. He bucked wildly against the doctor's calm hand that rested on his hardening belly. He begged. "When?! God – I can't wait any longer-" his voice rose, panicked, as the pain and pressure built to such an intense level that he actually saw stars. Then the doctor's hands were somewhere else, and he heard his command through a fog of blinding pain.

"Now, Sherlock. Chin on your chest. That's it. Now. Push!"

John felt as though his hand was being squeezed entirely off. The monitor attendant was at Sherlock's other side, ready to offer her hand if he should need it. His face was contorted as he squinted and bore down with all of his might.

"Push – push –push – push – push. That's it. You're doing fine."

Sherlock fell back, exhausted, but the pressure was too intense for him to rest for more than a few seconds. He curled forward again on instinct, and John, reading his weariness, snaked an arm around his back for support. Sherlock sagged into it. The doctor spoke again.

"On the next one, here we go. Let's try to get in three big pushes before the contraction is over. On my count –"

Sherlock grunted. And pushed. And screamed. And swore. And fifteen minutes later, the baby still hadn't made an appearance.

John studied his partner with concern. His face was quite noticeably swollen from the exertion, and his legs had begun shaking uncontrollably so that the attendants had been rubbing them to ease the severity.

"How about we try something new," the doctor stated. It wasn't a question. "Sherlock – we're going to have you sitting up a bit straighter. Jolie is going to raise the bed so you can rest against it, and then we're going to start pushing again. I know that you and this little guy are both getting pretty tired by now. We're going to have him out in no time."

Sherlock gave a weak nod, exhausted. He was petrified that he was going to die; or, worse yet, be in this unimaginably excruciating stage of childbirth forever. When the doctor gave the command to push again, heavy tears were rolling down the detective's face. He was just so ready for it to be over. After a few more weak pushes, he sobbed, declared that it was too much for him, and that he absolutely could not do it. John hugged him as Sherlock's long fingers gripped his forearm tightly.

"Yes you can. Yes you can, sweetheart." Sherlock shook his head, weeping. "I love you," John pressed a kiss onto the detective's sweat-soaked curls. "I know you can do anything. You can do this, Sherlock! You've all but done it! Look at how far you've come. It will all be over with just a little bit more work. Very, very soon. And then we'll have our wonderful little Hamish."

Sherlock nodded rapidly at this, blinking back tears in fresh determination. John continued, "Come on, then. Let's give it another go. This time for keeps."

When the doctor gave the command to push, Sherlock grabbed hold of his knees and leaned forward, bearing down until he saw stars behind his eyelids and his face took on a mottled hue. It felt like an eternity, and afterward he took in great gulps of air.

"Very good news, gentlemen." The doctor's tone was encouraging. "This position is doing the trick. You got him a good inch lower on that one, young man." He smiled at Sherlock, who felt a surge of adrenaline as he waited for the next cue to push. It came almost immediately.

"Okay, Push, Sherlock! Drop your chin, that's it – very good!" Then, "Can you see that, John? Can you see the head?"

"Oh -! Yes!" John Watson cried happily, as the tears came unbidden. Then he gulped, his expression changed. "Oh, God, Sherlock – how are you doing this?" Sherlock shot him a look under slanted brows. He could feel the baby moving further downward, and took a deep breath to push, but the doctor told him, pointedly, _not to_.

"What?!" he gasped, incredulous. _He was almost there_!

"I don't want you to tear, so we're just going to pant until the head emerges further on its own."

John knew that Sherlock probably felt this was some cruel form of torture, but he breathed alongside of him, using the techniques from the birthing classes they had watched together online. After several long, horrible seconds – which felt like several long, horrible minutes to Sherlock – the doctor instructed him to give a "good, steady push – not too hard, and stop when I tell you to."

In another moment, the baby's head was out, and Sherlock was being given the same command as the physician turned the baby to deliver his shoulders. A rather unpleasant sensation for Sherlock, to say the least. And then! He felt his son sort of wiggling around as he moved to leave his body. Such immeasurable relief! He could bear the rest of it now. "It's a boy!" the doctor announced. Sherlock strained forward to catch a glimpse of him. John laughed in unbridled joy, and hugged and kissed Sherlock as he fell back against the bed.

A lusty cry sounded above the detective's subsiding gasps and pants, and all thoughts of pain and discomfort fled. He complied with the rest of the doctor's instuctions until the placenta was delivered and the nurse began to clean him up. He gazed over at his son, who was loudly protesting the obvious incompetence of the idiotic medical team. He couldn't stop grinning. He looked up at John. There was an identical beam of elation on the older man's face, which he turned slowly back toward Sherlock.

"You were amazing, Sherlock! Amazing!" He kissed the knuckles on one elegant, long-fingered hand. "I don't think I will ever cease to be amazed by you." Sherlock basked in his beloved's praise, then tilted his head so they could share a tender kiss. When they parted, a tiny wrapped bundle was being carried over to them. Sherlock reached for it, and the baby settled naturally into his long, graceful arms. John took several photos of the pair with his camera, and then his phone. He sent texts to Mycroft, Molly, and Lestrade (who promised to show Mrs. Hudson). And then the nurse took the camera from him and took shots of the three of them together.

After a while, the extra bodies and medical carts in the room began to leave, one by one. Until eventually, John and Sherlock were left alone with their son. Sherlock was fast asleep, his arm draped over the bassinet at his bedside. Hamish was sleeping as well.

John made up the sofa bed in the room, in case he actually slept that night. They were going home the next day, as long as everyone was still doing well. He fired up his computer, and submitted his blog entry for the evening. It was a single line:

**Today Sherlock and I became the proud parents of Hamish Watson-Holmes! Born at 3:35pm. 7 lb, 6 oz, 22 in**.

They got over 3,000 hits in the first hour.

* * *

**A/N - So that's it! Thank you for reading this. The second chapter turned out to be much longer than the first, but I couldn't really find a good place to break it up to make it an even three-shot. **

**P.S. - I love reviews :) What did you all think? **


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